


It Only Happened in a Dream

by Shush7



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF, Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Armie's POV, First Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-03-19 00:06:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13692666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shush7/pseuds/Shush7
Summary: "Why won't you call me Timmy anymore?" he asked, staring at me with such intent that I felt like his ridiculously beautiful green eyes were boring holes into me. Seeing right through me. Seeing me for the liar that I am.A liar, because even if I hadn't necessarily told him a lie, I had omitted the truth and that was much the same. I lied in the ways I acted around him, I lied in the ways I touched him, the ways I looked at him. And even now, I was trying to lie in the way I felt for him. Hidden from everyone and anyone, yet it was burning away in me. 'Only three days to go and then I will be freed from this inferno,' I thought. But I highly doubted I would reach paradise after the burning stopped. If it ever did.





	It Only Happened in a Dream

**Author's Note:**

> I loved CMBYN. I also truly adore and respect both Armie and Timothée as actors and human beings. However, they do have a very special talent of drawing out my creative side. So for the first time in my life I decided to put something on paper (well, Microsoft Word, actually) and I truly hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it! I would highly appreciate your feedback as I really feel as if I've plunged into unknown waters, head first.
> 
> Also, a disclaimer: I unfortunately own neither of them and this work is pure fiction. I like to think of this story as how it could've happened in a parallel universe of sorts as a result of playing the roles of Elio and Oliver. In my mind, I imagine this being read aloud by Armie, such as the CMBYN audiobook.

It was one of the last days of shooting, a day so hot that you could feel the humidity sticking to your skin even after the sun had long ago fallen beneath the horizon. It must've been over 30 degrees when we finished our dinner at Luca's around midnight. It was just us three then – me, Luca and Timothée. We had gone over a few final scenes in the script that were to be filmed in the days that followed, the discussion accompanied by a bottle of Pinot Grigio that turned to two, turned to three until we finally lost count after so many hours.

Despite occasional bursts of laughter and feeling giddy from the wine a sense of finality was lingering in the humid air. It was, after all, almost the end of summer. A summer in a small city in Northern Italy which had crawled under our skins and refused to give way, at least while we were still there. And it had done so despite our best efforts to not allow it. Because although it felt real – sore thighs from the bike rides, the water that immersed us when we swam and eternal sunshine that had left tan lines too high up on my legs – it was a mere dream, a life away from life. And to live the dream was no life at all.

To me, it felt just like sleeping, lying down on the living room couch for a quick afternoon nap after playing with the kids all morning and cooking lunch with the wife, yet somehow being transported completely elsewhere. To another place, to another _us_ , where it was possible to have long moonlit dinners in the most beautiful places with never ending wine, extremely short shorts and a 19-year-old Timothée. Where it was not only possible, but alright. Yet while sleeping, there was always a little voice in the back of my head, telling me that it was a dream and that there will come a time when I must wake from my sleep as not even Sleeping Beauty slept forever. _'And when you do wake,_ ' whispered the voice, _'you can never go back to that dream, no matter how much you want to. No matter how much you ache for it, and for what could have been if it were a reality, for it was only just a dream.'_

"Thanks Luca, for another great night, I'm really getting used to this. But-- I really gotta go now, otherwise I'm just gonna miss my final shoot tomorrow," I managed surprisingly soberly and added, "Wouldn't be the first time." We all chuckled at that and I couldn't help noticing how Timothée's dark curls swayed when he tilted his head back in laughter.

"Yes, yes, it is _molto importante_ that you be in good shape tomorrow. Goodbye scene of Elio and Oliver _difficile_ for both Elio and Oliver, and Armie and Timothée," he said sincerely. I felt my smile falter. Suddenly, there was not enough air to breathe – I blamed it on the heat as it really was too humid that night – and I needed something to drink. I quickly poured and downed another glass of cold white wine. Albeit almost icy due to being in the cooler, the wine did no longer help me cool down, rather I felt it bring a slight blush to my cheeks, my neck, my chest. Even with lowered attentiveness I could've sworn I saw Timothée's eyes on me when I put down the glass, even if the glance lingered for merely a second. He had been looking at my Adam's apple, I was sure of it. The way it had bobbed when I swallowed the very last drop of wine.

He saw me looking, I know he did, because he quickly looked down and ignored my gaze, desperate to find something else to focus on. He ended up taking a tangerine from the crystal bowl in the center of the table. He rolled the fruit between his palms nervously before pushing his index finger through the skin of it, peeling it slowly and putting one slice in his mouth, still looking down. Sweet scent of the tangerine filled the moist air immediately. Fuck, I could even smell him eating it. I must've been more inebriated than I felt because _I couldn't look away._

"I think we start at 11 tomorrow, not 9. Then time for rest, already _mezzanotte_ now," Luca said looking at his watch in candlelight. But I was no longer listening to him. All of my attention was on Timothée. Another piece of the fruit had found its way into his mouth, his soft pink lips almost closing around his fingers when it did. Almost.

I wanted to taste him so badly. His mouth, his fingers. They would taste of tangerine. Or, if nothing else, to just eat the last quarter of the tangerine which he was still holding in his hands, because at least it would taste of him, of his hands.

A small droplet trickled down his lips when he bit into the slice. I almost whimpered. He licked it away quickly, finally lifting his eyes to look at me. _'Mine!_ ,' I wanted to yell, _'That droplet was mine! It should have been me who licked it off your lips. It should have been me..'_ But even my most desperate thoughts sounded like a whisper; tired from the constant fight of keeping myself at bay.

It only then dawned on me that I had been staring Timothée in such an obvious manner that both him and Luca must have noticed. I shifted my gaze immediately to Luca instead. "Sorry, Luca, too much wine, I think, what did you say?"

"That we start filming at 11 tomorrow, now go sleep," he rose from the table and started gathering the plates. "No! Go, go! I will clean up, you and Timmy go to sleep," Luca said, when I tried to pick up the wine glasses.

"I'm really not that tired," protested Timothée, having finished the tangerine and now stretching his long arms over his head. However, with that stretch came a yawn which turned into laughter a few seconds later as he understood how his actions had countered his words. _And actions always speak louder than words, that's why I have to keep myself away from him._

"Sure you're not tired," I smiled at him and stood up to leave, "Let's go, Timothée, you heard the man. Ciao, Luca! Everything was _delizioso_!" I waved at Luca, walking away from the garden where we had been sitting, and enhanced the Italian word with a silly gesture by lifting my fingers up to my mouth and kissing them _'mwah_ '.

Timothée shifted awkwardly in his seat and looked up at me leaving.

"What are you waiting for, me to carry you?" I shouted at him, smiling.

The smile was fake – it was a friendly smile meant for accompanying jokes, but I wasn't joking. I didn't want to be. I would've gladly held him in my arms. I would've begged him to let me hold him, carry him to the hotel where we were staying. Into my room. Into his room. Anywhere, really. Just so I could touch his ethereally beautiful face, his sharp cheekbones, his pink lips that surely tasted of tangerine, and his luscious dark hair, all of which was made even more beautiful by the moonlight.

He glanced at me, looking slightly hurt for some reason, but finally lifted himself from the garden chair, throwing his black sweater over his narrow shoulders, and followed me out of the garden to the grassy path where I was waiting. We started walking towards the hotel which was only about 10 minutes away. The humidity was suffocating. Or it could've been the silence. We were never silent.

 

Almost halfway to the hotel, Timothée suddenly stopped and looked up at me.

"Why won't you call me Timmy anymore?" he asked, staring at me with such intent that I felt like his ridiculously beautiful green eyes were boring holes into me. _Seeing_ right through me. Seeing me for the liar that I am.

A liar, because even if I hadn't necessarily told him a lie, I had omitted the truth and that was much the same. I lied in the ways I acted around him, I lied in the ways I touched him, the ways I looked at him. And even now, I was trying to lie in the way I felt for him. Hidden from everyone and anyone, yet it was burning away in me. _Only three days to go and then I will be freed from this inferno_ , I thought. But I highly doubted I would reach paradise after the burning stopped. If it ever did.

"Should I?" was the easiest reply. I knew I had stopped calling him Timmy. Better to just shrug it off as something unimportant. Something I hadn't even noticed myself.

"Because you used to, but not anymore. Why?" He turned his head a little to the left, squinting his eyes at me. It wasn't a suspicious squint, but it should have been. I was a liar after all. Instead, his eyes squinted like they would when looking directly into the sun, knowing you shouldn't, knowing it may end up blinding you, being afraid, but looking anyway. But why look? Why look, when everyone told you not to? Is it to spite them? _Is this to spite me?_

I had also stopped for a second. "Timmy," I replied unceremoniously, barely looking at him, and started walking again. "Coming?"

"Oh please!" he almost yelled after me, "How could that possibly persuade me that nothing is wrong?" He was just standing there, obviously confused and starting to get angry. I couldn't blame him.

"Nothing is wrong, I didn't know I had to persuade you of anything. Stop being ridiculous," I smiled another fake smile and pushed my hands into my pockets for good measure, trying to show him that I felt as comfortable now as I had always felt around him.

"Armie, something is wrong. I can tell. Did I do something?”

Silence.

“What did I do? I'm sorry if I assumed too much of our friendship," he said and was now looking at the ground before him, kicking an innocent piece of pebble with his foot. Naturally he would blame himself. He had yet to realize how truly lovable he was.  
  
"You always called me Timmy. Before, I mean, you always called me Timmy. Because we are-- we were friends and I know I'm just a stupid kid, but I stupidly thought that we--.”

"Stop," I said softly and crossed the few meters that were separating us, "of course we're friends. And you're anything but a stupid kid, anything but," I smiled, genuinely this time. He was still staring at the ground. I shifted my hand up to his chin and lifted it so he was forced to look me in the eye. "I'm sorry I made you self-conscious, it was never my intention. Nothing is going on." _Liar_.  
  
"That's not true, Armie, and you know it. Do you-- maybe you don't want to continue this friendship or whatever we have-- had-- after we leave here? If this was just a charade for you," and although his voice cracked, he was still looking me straight in the eyes with those beautiful emerald greens I could never tire of.  
  
"Why would you think it was a charade for me?" I let go of his chin, albeit unwillingly.

"You're going to think this is stupid," he sighed and looked away again. His black cardigan had fallen off his left shoulder, taking some of his green shirt with it and thus partially baring his collarbone. Timothée's skin was so pale as if it were pure, _untouched_. I wanted to bite into his soft milky skin and leave traces of me all over.

"I thought we already established that I don't think you're stupid. Tell me," I barely managed while closing my eyes and trying desperately to think of something else, _anything_ else. Just not the collarbone.

"You don't touch me anymore, no casual hugs or bumping of legs together. You barely look at me when we're together and not filming. In fact, we're never together, never just the two of us. Not in the last two weeks. I would even say you're avoiding me, but-- but that would be stupid, right? Because why would you?" I felt him looking at me again, so I forced my eyes open to look at him. _I'm a liar, can't you see?_

"Armie, we used to spend every second together. Swimming, biking to the city, eating, even sleeping sometimes," he continued, "You're like a brother to me! Something must have happened. I just don't understand."

I looked down at my feet as if that would solve the problem. As it ever had. Should I fake disinterest? Just shrug it off? He's too smart to believe it.

Suddenly he breathed in very quickly, obviously having come to some sort of a realization, "Oh my God, Armie, is it because we were naked together? Is it because," he was practically gulping down air, "because it made you feel uncomfortable? That we kissed and touched and were intimate?”

He almost sobbed, breathing heavily, but continued, “Your parents are so conservative, you told me they didn't approve of this project. Does it disgust you now, too? After everything we've done together? Tell me, what we did, does it disgust you? Do I disgust you?" I could see him blinking away a tear and his eyes looked red-rimmed. He wasn't a crier. I'd never seen him cry. I must have truly hurt him. _Oh God, if he only knew._

I couldn't say anything. I should've said, _'Yes,'_ and be done with it. I just stood there like the cowardly fool that I am. I didn't even look at him. I didn't have to, he drew his own conclusions.

"So that's it?" he sniffed and wiped his eyes with the back of his pale hand, "Well maybe you should've thought about this before you took this fucking role, Oliver," he spat and without sparing me another glance, practically ran in the other direction.

"Fuck," I whispered to myself. I couldn't go after him despite wanting to. The truth would've broken him. Broken me. _He had called me Oliver._ My chest cramped at the thought, because in a way I really was him. Acting indifferently to hide what I really felt, pushing Timothée away although I craved for him. I was a coward, scared because this was just a dream, a dream that was about to end. I had a wife, a family I had to go back to. Wanted to go back to. That was the reality.

"Fuck," I said again, walking to the nearest tree, leaning my back against it and letting my head fall back. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck," I kept repeating while sinking lower and lower, until I finally reached the ground, my head still fallen back and resting on the tree.

Timothée had trusted me. He had called me _brother_ , for Christ sake, _even now he had called me brother_. Said I was his role model, the perfect gentleman, the perfect husband, the perfect father. _Brother_. It would break him to know I didn't think of him as my brother. It would break him to learn that in all of these intimate moments between Elio and Oliver, in the moments he had trusted me with his uncovered and much less experienced body, I had wanted him so badly it had physically hurt.

And it wasn't Elio I wanted, it was Timothée, all of him. All of his quirks, his open sincerity, his laugh, his doubts about himself – everything that made him the boy that he was. No, the _man_ that he was. The _extraordinary man_ that he was. The _only man_ that I had ever wanted in my life; the concept of wanting a man so foreign to me I had failed to recognize even the most obvious signs.

The reality of Timothée and the role of Elio had blurred, much in the same way mine and Oliver's did, which is why I didn't know until it was too late. I foolishly thought I was playing a role until I wasn't, and then I couldn't just laugh it off or push it aside. I wanted him and there was no use in denying it.

Once I finally realized, it had already consumed me. I was too afraid I would act on it to spend time alone with him, too afraid to touch him, even look at him or affectionately call him _Timmy_. I had to detach myself.

Of course he had noticed, he was so clever – it was one of the things I loved about him. But how could I possibly look at him, when doing so I could only envision myself touching him, caressing his cheekbones with the tips of my fingers, down his neck, his shoulders. Kissing his soft pink mouth, only a brush of lips at first. _Not Oliver kissing Elio, but Armie kissing Timothée_. He would be surprised at first, but surely give in, lean into me, melt into my body so that we would become one and even after the dream ends, it would be impossible to separate us.

But my cravings for him were not always sweet and gentle. On days when he was particularly _him_ , fiesty, teasing me or making sarcastic comments, I wanted to pin him down by covering his lithe body with my much larger one, hear him gasp when I pulled his dark curls, make him _beg_ for whatever was to come. Or on days when he was just simply being too good of an actor, playing the part of Elio with such ease it made my insides crumple with jealousy and swell with pride, I wanted to suck bruises onto his pale soft neck and down his collarbone, to show everyone that this talented, clever human being, this beautiful soul was mine and only mine.

"Fuck," I said with a finality in my voice and picked myself up from the ground, following in the direction Timothée had hurried earlier. I needed to talk to him. He didn’t deserve this, but he deserved to know. And I recognised instantly where he had gone: Monet's berm. I smiled despite everything. He always went there when he wished to be alone. The similarities between him and Elio were astounding. No wonder it had taken me too long to figure out that I was no longer playing a role.

 

When I finally reached the berm, I saw him sitting in the exact same place where Elio and Oliver had had their first kiss. He had divested himself of the sweater, his lithe body now only covered by the dark green shirt and denim shorts that barely reached his knees, leaning backwards on his palms and looking up at the sky.

"Go away," he said, not turning his head to look, but obviously hearing me walk towards him.

"You know I won't," I said, sitting down next to him, "I'm sorry."

"What are you sorry for? You played the role, that's all that matters," he answered bitterly, "No one will know that I repulse you so it won't ruin the movie. At least I'm sure as hell not going to tell anyone. Please go away now."

He was still not looking at me. I couldn't let myself live knowing he thought I found him disgusting. Or found the things that we had done disgusting, as it was furthest from the truth.

"I could never find you repulsive," I sighed, and turned my head to look at him. Maybe then he would feel the pull and look at me too. "I find you anything but."

He finally did, look at me, too. "Then what?" he asked, and I saw that his eyes were still slightly red.

"It's going to hurt you if I tell you," I replied. I didn't know how to tell him. I didn't even know exactly what I was here to explain. I could barely understand what _this_ was myself. I just knew I wanted him.

"It already hurts without telling," and he shifted his body so he was leaning forward instead, placing his elbows on his kneecaps and resting his head on his hands, almost curled up into a ball.

There was silence between us. I cherished it, the last moments of _this_ , of _us_ , because after I would say my piece, it was him that might find me disgusting.

The air was still thick with humidity, but I could finally feel the wind picking up slightly, a breeze here, gust there. I tried to breathe deeply, clear my head somehow, because I felt more inebriated at that moment than I would’ve liked. I wanted to have control, _needed_ to have control. I didn’t want to ruin us. But perhaps I already had.

"I-- I can't stop thinking about you," I finally whispered, looking away into the distance and hoping he would dismiss my words as gentle wind blowing past us.

I felt him shift his head and look at me, "About me how?"

Silence again. It was now or never. Maybe he would understand. Maybe even forgive me, although it was too much to ask. "In every way."

"Oh."

He really wasn't expecting it.

I could feel his anger and confusion melt away. He was breathing so smoothly now, quietly.

"I'm sorry," I apologized, staring at my hands now, anything to avoid seeing him. And perhaps I was not only avoiding, but also looking, searching desperately because if all of your life was supposed to be prewritten on your palms, surely I would find this moment carved into my lifelines. I needed answers, I had to know whether this moment right now was a beginning, a middle or an end. _Please don't be an end. I couldn't, I just couldn't if this were an end._

"Don't be."

I turned my gaze to him immediately, my eyes meeting his eyes. "I don't even know what this is," I said as if trying to explain myself.  
  
"You don't have to know what it is to feel it," he replied softly, then added, “I feel it too.”  
  
"Oh,” was my turn to say. I hadn’t even dared to hope.  
  
We were just holding each other’s gaze in silence.  
  
"I thought you loved me as a brother," I finally managed.

"I love you as my everything," he breathed, and I recognized it as the truth it was because I knew him better than I even knew myself.

I placed the palm I had been so thoroughly investigating just minutes ago on his cheek and stroked his left cheekbone gently with my thumb. "How could this happen?" I asked, because although I didn't have the answers, maybe he did. He was so smart, after all. I loved that he was so smart.

"I don't know," he whispered, “I really don’t know,” he repeated apologetically, and, closing his eyes, leaned into my hand.

His soft cheek fit perfectly into the palm of my hand, as if my hands had been sculpted to just hold him, only him. Maybe we really were two pieces of a puzzle, adrift for so long, but now finally finding what we should’ve always been looking for. Perhaps his body was just a reminder to me of what I had been missing in mine.

I sighed heavily, shifted my hand from his cheek, and looked away. "If I had met you 10 years ago, everything in my life would've been different. But you were still a child then. Our timing is all wrong.”

“Maybe,” I continued, “maybe someday, I don’t know. Maybe in another life I could be yours and you could be mine. But not in this life, not in reality. This, right now, this summer, it’s just a dream.”

I turned to him again. He was looking at me with such open sincerity, I felt like I would drown if I kept looking. I couldn’t handle it, so I moved my gaze down onto his lips instead. I was mesmerized. By him, by his _lips_ , so soft, plush, pink, slightly parted. I loved the curve of them. Of course I did. I loved his everything.

“Or maybe,” he whispered, “there will never be a time that is more right than this moment now. What if you never dream again? What if you have just this one?” And then I could see him moving closer, closer until I closed my eyes because I couldn't even think anymore, and felt his lips press onto mine.

Everything had come back full circle, I realized then, my lips softly pressed against his. On Monet's berm, where Elio and Oliver had first kissed, and just like Elio, Timothée was the one who finally took the plunge because I couldn’t. Neither of us dared to move or even breathe. For a moment, I felt as if even my heart had stopped, perhaps to give us more time as merely a heartbeat could shatter this.

But if this was the only time we had and would ever have, I would take it and make him mine.

I parted my lips and nipped at his with my teeth so he'd let me in, let me _relish_ him because I wanted to imprint this moment into my memory forever, to remember the sounds, the smell, the way he tasted. _Everything._ And he let me, parting his lips with a wretched moan that I could never erase even if I desperately wanted to, and caressed my tongue with his. His mouth was so soft, moist and tasted of tangerines. _Another fruit I could never look at without feeling instantly aroused._

I grabbed at his hands, shoulders, body and pulled him on top of me. I didn’t know where to touch as I wanted everything and didn’t know how to use this limited amount of time that we had. The time we really didn’t even have, that was borrowed in every sense, and the dream could just end right then. I couldn’t think about this ending, ever. So as we fell back onto the grass, I must’ve crushed him against me so that every inch of him would touch every inch of me. Because maybe then we could really melt together, never be separated, and this would never end. _But I just couldn’t get close enough._

It felt desperate and so bittersweet that even while it was happening, it already felt like a memory – as if we were just trying to grasp the last strings of the fleeting moment to stay even for one second more. To not forget, to never forget how his body felt against mine and how he sobbed when I kissed down his pale beautiful neck and sucked a purple bruise on his collarbone. _Mine. If only for this moment, he was mine. And I was his._

 

And when we finally pulled apart for some air, I looked him in the eyes and said: "If anyone ever asks, and they will, then tell them _yes, but it only happened in a dream_."


End file.
